


Cold Feet

by phoebesmum



Category: Sports Night
Genre: Betrayal, Ficlet, Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-01
Updated: 2009-12-01
Packaged: 2017-10-04 01:39:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoebesmum/pseuds/phoebesmum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are the things you have, and the things you want, and the things you need, and sometimes none of these things coincide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Feet

**Author's Note:**

> Written April 2007 for Oxoniensis's 'Hugs, Cuddles and Kisses' challenge. Prompt: Dan/Natalie - _finally_ and _shoes_.

She's not a girl who cries easily, Natalie. She's proud of that. She's supportive, efficient, reliable, unflappable. All those things, and then some more. She isn't weak, she isn't girly, she isn't lame or pitiful.

Except, sometimes, when she is.

She couldn't tell you herself what brought this on. She crouches in the corner of the supply room – she'd been heading for the women's bathroom, but she never made it that far – and sobs into the Kleenex she'd found crumpled in her sweater pocket. She tells herself to get it together, to stop being so stupid for god's sake, but the more she tries, the angrier she becomes with herself, the less she's able to stop. She knows she has a lot to be thankful for; she tries to focus on that. But all she can see at this moment is the downside – and there's a downside to everything.

_You have Jeremy. Jeremy loves you. Why else did you decide to marry him?_

Except she's not sure she _wants_ to marry Jeremy; there are times he gets on her nerves, times she could cheerfully strangle him. She's not sure she wants to be a part of Jeremy's weird family, any more than Jeremy really wants to be a part of hers – they've been together all this time, and neither of them's ever quite figured out the ins and outs of the other's customs. And she's bleakly aware that, lovely as his father is, kind as his mother, Jeremy's family is less than thrilled to have their eldest son marry what they have never in her hearing called a _shiksa_. She would bet her last dollar that that word's come up plenty of times in family arguments that she's never been told of.

_Her last dollar_. That sets her off again. She loves her job – she _does_ – but she's been treading water for the last two years, stuck in routine, no advance, no promotion, no _change_ … and not enough money. Not enough by far, not to save for the apartment they want, the furniture they'll need, the wedding and everything that that'll involve: a hall, a dress, a dinner, a honeymoon (and then Jeremy, no-one but Jeremy ever again, from that day forward and for the rest of her life). She feels trapped: by loyalty (how much does she love these people? She loves them a _lot_) and laziness (job-hunting! Preparation, interviews, rejection … oh, god, who'd put themselves through that if they didn't have to?); by custom (_Sports Night_ is her home. Remember that first show, remember the tension and the excitement and the craziness and the joy? Remember Danny, snatching you up in his arms and spinning you round and round and round, remember how you kissed him, hungrily, greedily, and felt him hard against you and only barely had the presence of mind to peel yourself off him and laugh it away) and, face it, cowardice (you're safe here; who knows what's out there?); but she's over thirty now, _well_ over thirty, and the good offers aren't going to wait forever. She may already have left it too late.

And her feet are cold, and her innards are tying themselves in knots. Maybe this is just PMT, after all. Nothing to worry about, just what her mother used to call the Curse. Or maybe – maybe it's something more.

She tucks up her knees, peers through the gloom at what she can see of her feet in the beautiful Prada slides she'd found in a bargain bin yesterday, price cut from over $300 to less than half that. They were her size, they'd fit perfectly, and it was so _long_ since she'd had anything new for herself, anything nice. How could she resist?

Jeremy hadn't yelled. He hadn't said anything. He'd only looked. And sighed.

"Okay, I'll return them!" she'd said, and he'd said, in his irritating, calm, always-right way, "No, no. It's fine. Keep them, it doesn't matter." And it wouldn't matter, because Jeremy was good with money and so, so sensible, he'd make it up somehow, cut out something he'd planned for himself, make ends meet, make do. Make her feel like a selfish, thoughtless, unfeeling monster.

Like he always did. Like he always would. For ever and ever, and amen. Unless she finds the courage to say the unthinkable, do the unforgivable.

She hears a creak, and a glimmer of light cracks around the doorway. Then there's a discreet cough, and a familiar voice says, "Nat? Is there anything I can do?"

_Yes. Oh, god, yes, there is!_

She scrambles up, half-yells, half-sobs, "Danny!" and launches herself across the room and into his waiting arms.

***


End file.
